teases

Take a stroll through my photos, try to ignore the twitch in your pants, and think about what you see.

Teases: yes. Denial: everywhere. Hints and peeks and almost glimpses.

And yet I don’t own that much lingerie. The sexiest shoots are a vest without a bra underneath. A button-up with just one button keeping you from the full monty. Hard nipples under a tank top. Converse shoes blocking your view.

There is lingerie in the mix, of course. But there is so much more here.

And that is part of what I love and part of why teasing gives me a euphoric high.

It’s the creativity.

It’s looking at a scarf and seeing lingerie. Looking at boots and seeing sex. Centering a shoot around a favorite top, a slightly sheer sweater, a cute skirt. Not just a teddy or a bra or a pair of panties.

My entire wardrobe sex. The high-waisted pants. The red boustier. And the giant raincoat. Even in that, I could have you drooling with the single flash of an ankle, or a single sentence that lets you imagination loose:

I’m not wearing anything underneath.

Everything around me is part of the tease, because I will it so.

Pressing myself to the floor makes even the floor my accomplice. My lingerie. My partner in teasing crime. I press my lips to a coffee cup and make it my ally in reminding you to think about those lips, think about what it feels like when I press them against something.

The rim of the margarita glass where I licked off the salt.

The soft blanket I press my body against for the boudoir shoot.

Leg warmers over perfect calves.

This is the rule I live by, the thrill that drives. And then that second thrill: denial. Knowing that you’re going crazy with longing.

Before I turned pro, I used to delete every message I got with relish. You would not even get a single word from me. Just the occasional photo to unmoor yourself over.

Now, the lucky ones get a word. A few words.

The luckiest: the chance to worship. The chance to give something back.

Because all of this isn’t for you. And yet it gives something to you.

We both know it. And you are fucking welcome.

When I was young, on a camping trip near a clay cliff-ringed lake, I stumbled upon a field of wild grasses full of wild bunnies. And after a moment of awe and thrill, I knew what I wanted:

I was going to coax one of these wild rabbits into my arms.

Some real Snow White shit, as one sub told me.

First, I made my way back to the campsite for a box of cereal. Then, I retraced my steps. And I settled in on my belly in that bug-buzzing field with my box of cereal and my plan.

I tossed some cereal to the nearest bunny, and I waited.

It took it.

And so began a long, slow dance. Cereal tossed to the nearest bunnies as they took each piece, considered each hop toward me, got used to me as part of the landscape and as a source of something delicious.

I don’t remember how long it took, only that I was committed.

To bringing that bunny ever closer. Until it let me pet it. So soft, so sweet. And then let me lift it into my arms.

However long it took, I reached that goal. I lifted that little fuzzbucket into my arms and fed it as much cereal as it could handle. And it was happy to rest there with me. To be warm and safe and full bellied until I released it back into the field with its fellows.

I told a sub this story and asked him how it made him feel.

Hunted, he said.

In a good way, he said.

And now I tell you.

When you see me say here kitty, kitty, kitty, or here, little bunny, know that I am patient. That I am waiting. That there are treats here and a warm pair of arms. That you are hunted, but that being caught feels oh so very good.

And when I say caught, I mean that you will willingly take the tossed treat, then the next one, then the next one, until you are sleepy and have a full belly and slip lightly into my arms.

And oh how it feels better here, safe and held and caught.

Take whatever time you need, bunny. The truth is you’re already mine. And all it takes to feel the relief of it is the barest hint of a step. The simple words, I’m yours.

Don’t be surprised when I answer: I know.

I’m sitting at a window table, windows thrown open to the sunshine, citrus margarita in blue-sparkly-manicured fingers. I close my eyes and take a sip, savoring the spicy pepper around the rim, the bright citrus of the drink itself, the warm sunlight dancing on my skin.

My earrings are large, gold hoops, glinting through my chestnut curls. My shirt is a deep V, perfect cleavage cradling a gold necklace and just a hint of silky black bra escaping the shirt to make itself known. My skirt is just a little sheer and a lot slitted—my left leg almost fully on display, hip to toe.

Any higher and you’d see my panties. What color are they? You will always wonder. You think maybe black because of the sheer skirt, but it could be blue, could be something else deep and dark.

The sandals on my feet sparkle. The rings on my fingers draw your attention as I lift a taco to my lips.

Those lips. Ever with the tiniest hint of a smile.

I place them around the taco and audibly sigh. Just loud enough that you hear because you’re paying attention.

You’re jealous of a taco. Then jealous of the chair I’m sitting on. Then jealous of the margarita.

You wish you were a footstool. You wish you were a table. You wish you were the salt on the rim of a margarita.

You’d pay to be any of those things.

But you never will. Never will feel these lips, know the color of the panties, feel the weight of me sitting on you.

The closest you’ll get is this. A description. A glimpse. An hour across the restaurant, glancing, wondering, longing. The closest you’ll get is paying the restaurant tab and knowing that I did not pay for my own pleasure. That those closed-eyed, sigh-filled sips of margarita, the salsa you saw me lick off my finger, the tacos I savored—they were from you.

And if you had my wishlist, you’d come the tiniest bit closer. Because you still wouldn’t know what panties I was wearing, but you’d buy me some and know that from then on, any day, I might be wearing yours.

It’s late Saturday night and I’m playing a themed drain game.

I’ve crafted it with care for a foot worship finsub and for the next 20 minutes, he’s mine. For the next 20 minutes, it’s exquisite torture.

For the next 20 minutes, he enters my wheelhouse: tease and denial.

There are three rules:

He must answer my questions honestly.

He must do as I say.

He cannot cum until I say so.

I send a censored photo. I ask a question.

He answers. And I tease. The photo comes back with a sliver revealed. More obedience is needed. More answers. More sends.

I draw it out. A censored photo strip tease. Every new sliver of unblurred skin, every toe, every inch of my arch is both tease and denial.

Something more is coming, it teases.

It’s not here…yet… It denies.

He holds his breath and waits to see when the final photo will be revealed. Every new sliver a little less left to his imagination. Every new sliver a tiny denial, a heady delay.

The questions are teases too.

They’re focused, sensual, vulnerable.

The sends are a tease. Small, then large, then small again. Strokes that build against his findom kink.

The commands are teases. Stop. Feel your heartbeat. Say my name. Go.

Every piece of this game is carefully crafted, a tease and denial dance centered on his core kink. A heady release delayed, delayed again, and finally achieved.

This is how I see and why I love tease and denial. It’s why it makes some form of appearance in almost everything I do.

It’s about pulling the threads of desire tight, building the tension, living in that space of anticipation and not knowing how long you will be there. This time it was 20 minutes. With another sub, it became a 28-day chastity game.

The pleasure, the pain, the thrill, the focus, the thread stretched between us—that’s anticipation. It’s the tease. It’s the denials that are actually mostly delays.

And when I release that thread, it becomes something more than the seconds of orgasm. The pleasure has stretched and expanded to fill those 20 minutes, that week, that 28 days.

You say thank you, Goddess. I tell you to hydrate. You rest, satisfied. Until the build starts all over again.

Peek-a-boo, goes a little bit of panty, a hint of cheek, the barest hint of nipple.

Look hard enough and you’ll notice most of what I wear is just a little sheer.

When I take my boots off, I unzip them slowly. Inch by painful inch.

When I wake in the morning, I slip out of my shirt with intention, feeling it brush soft across belly, breasts, neck.

When I see myself in the mirror, a wicked smile graces my lips.

I love the way I look, the ways I can tease.

I love when you have to do a double take, when I can see your pulse beat in your throat. You don’t even realize you’re licking your lips.

I don’t do it for you, but I revel in how much you wish I did.

I don’t do it for you, but my breath comes a little faster when I think of how it tortures you. How much you long for just one more inch of skin.

I revel, even when I’m alone, at how much power is in every curve, from curls to eyelashes, the hollow in my throat to the arch of my foot.

I know you want to feel the silk of my skin against your fingertips. I know you want me to aim the camera just a little higher. I know you wonder what I taste like.

And I love that you will keep wondering.

Keep longing.

Keep thinking about me long after you finish reading these words.

“Next week is a long time,” he said before asking if we could do the cash meet the same day.

It is a long time, I agreed. And that’s the fun of it.

Because half the pleasure isn’t the fantasy itself. It’s not the moment you hand me your money. It’s not the moment I look into your eyes and demand it. It’s not when I order you to put on my panties, to kiss my boot, to beg, to stroke yourself.

It’s the anticipation. The lead-in. The hours, the days you spend picturing it in your mind, wondering what it will feel like, knowing it’s coming.

There’s a reason I call myself a tease. I love to draw things out. I love the waiting. I love doling out moments of relief and then pulling the string taut again with anticipation for whatever comes next.

Would you rather have one hour of anticipation and fantasy or a day? A week? A month?

The pleasure is so much deeper when you’re desperate for it, begging, weak with the wanting.

There’s a reason I don’t let you dictate timing. Because I can hold out longer than you. I can play with you. Tease you. Dangle the risk that is waiting, the shuddering, shivering fear and pain and pleasure.

I can take your five-minute fantasy and make it something more.

This week I’ve gotten a lot of messages – but three of them made me stop in my tracks.

Three made my heart race, my pulse tick upward.

Three made me bite my lip in anticipation.

They were about different kinks, different requests, different types of dynamics. But they all had some things in common:

Surrendering control.

Being willing to take risks for me. Big ones.

Worship.

It all comes back to worship.

And the more I embrace it, the more I am myself. Authentically. Fully.

Powerfully.